Likes This, Like That
by atreriaestus
Summary: Saix/Demyx. Moments Like These. He likes that. It sounds like a hallmark card. But if it's not a lie, it can't hurt you. It can't make you cry. ::Mature. Giftfic.::


This is a drabble long overdue to my girlfriend. She requested it like … wayyy before Halloween, so. I don't think it's quite what she expected, though. It's less poetry and more … asphalt? It's just gritty and raw and almost _transgressive._ … My Saix muse does strange things.

Nonetheless, I like it. It's funny, actually.

The prompt was "iridescent", but that … needs some, um … reading between the lines, I guess. It has more of a self-inflicted bad title. Lol.

**Square-Enix/Disney, Tetsuya Nomura.**

* * *

It was moments like these the well-honed weapon would pause all the endlessly churning gears in his mind, tilt his head and listen to the sounds that no one else could hear: past the boy's hope for breath, past the ridges of his fingertips scrambling for purchase on smooth flesh, past the ruffle of the sheets as he squirmed and writhed like a snake in the desert, just as sensual and just as alluring.

The reverberations of sound were so low, so humble that they could only be heard if The Queen Royal impeached them to higher frequencies.

But it was just the pitch he liked: so low only his ears could hear.

In these moments, right before his precious musician stopped biting his lip and submitted fully to his knight, he could hear the faint hum of a throbbing heartbeat.

It was a moment like this that made Saix swear, if only to himself, utter devotion to his artist. He'd always had a curiosity for a man with principals and a platform, and The Boss-Man only had the latter. Besides, he'd never truly tell anyone, but on cold mornings the little chirping birdies made his hands warm (where he guessed in a previous life it would be his heart) and Demyx was in so much need of nurturing.

Yeah, that was it. Saix was the twisted version of Demyx's Father. Except, y'know. He liked to have sex with him.

"I thought you said you--ah! …You'd never make me … cry like this again," the blonde choked out between sobs of pleasure, and it was then he saw the tears streaming down the petite blonde's face.

He murmured an apology, dipping down to lick the saltwater away--couldn't help but mentally chuckle at an oceanic reference trailing too quickly behind his eyes--and rotated his hips just right to make his lover do the serpentine motion again. Yeah. He liked that.

And the boy _sang_. It was strangled and harsh and almost hurt, but he still sang like a hark and heralded angel in a world that had never so much as seen a feather. It was raw, gritty, and true. … He liked that, too.

He likes all of that, all of the boy. The way he can go from sand to snow with a different roll of his belly, the way he always reminds himself to open his eyes after he finds himself biting his knuckles to try and keep their secret from leaking.

Saix really wouldn't care if it did. But, maybe, just maybe, he likes it, likes it when Demyx pretends he'd care.

And, oh, when the blue-on-yellow clashes, it's like a dog fight in the back alley, all bruises and teeth and flying fur. Somehow, the poetry in motion is just as harsh, just as violent, and every bit as much as either one of them can take, because they always finish unfulfilled and wanting more but too spent and too tired to go on.

And Demyx is just too cried out: again.

Saix likes that.

His toes are cold. Divinity laughs, all fluid grace and deep thought, because he doesn't know how many other things the boy could think to complain about first. But he settles on this one, sneaks his feet up the male's thigh and wiggles them like they're some sort of lure.

He takes the bait, anyway, pulling away to fix the problem. But then he whines about the rest of him being cold, and has left his lover in quite the predicament. Unsure of what Red Riding Hood wants, he tilts his head and simply tenders himself to not knowing.

"And what do you propose I do, sire?" He likes calling him things like that, things like "sire" and "my lord"--because, he knows, one day (maybe not in this life), Demyx will be King. Or maybe he just likes being submissive sometimes: nothing more than a servant.

"I don't know." And it's a pout. Damn those cesspool eyes, shifting and bringing new colors forth, like the moon on the tide. Saix always liked swallowing the moan when he looked into the needy hues.

But there's a task at hand: "Well, I can't fix it if you don't help me, love." Damn, he's starting to get that lilt to his voice again.

The cold toes slide up to his inner thigh, and before he can even wonder how the boy's comfortably bending that way, he's shivering at the sudden attack of winter on his heat, imagining little hackles raise on the back of his neck.

"Demyx." This time it's a growl, and the offender retreats back behind the lines happily, as though this soldier knows his job's well-done and there's a hot meal waiting for him.

But the problem is he gets shot on the way back, straight through the heart, and there's an image of a world being swallowed by darkness as he slither-squirms on the sheets with a berserker's teeth in his shoulder.

Demyx likes that, likes how unpredictable his lover his, likes how things are always shifting and changing: like water! Or sand.

The tempo resumes, and he likes this beat, how it's fast and hot. Even if he wanted it to stop, he probably wouldn't say so.

Saix likes that, like a Big Bad Wolf.

"Why were you crying?" The question is sudden and breaks the silence--no, shatters it to millions of pieces that rain down in shards. The churning in his eyes stops and the snake's been stabbed into place by his tail.

"I…"

"You…?" He likes it when Demyx is stumbling to grasp for his words. It means he's caught him, trapped him, pinned him under the full weight of his hips like a captive butterfly under the needle, and it sends the most delicious chills up his spine.

"I was whole. For just one second, I was … complete…"

Saix isn't sure he likes that.

But he'll settle for it. Because that's what a devotee does.


End file.
